A Chance

You probably don’t remember much of anything from when you were little. I’m talking toddler age. The beginning of learning new things.

You aren’t just learning how to throw a ball or learning all the colors of your crayons. You also learn some harder lessons. Ones that make you cry (because you’re also learning how to manage emotions at this age). Some of those harder lessons might be that if you run too fast, you can fall down and scrape your knee. Or if you touch the stove while it’s on and find out what the word “hot” means. A lot of times, after these harder lessons, you develop fear. Fear that it will happen again. That you’ll get hurt again. And you try to avoid getting hurt again at all costs.

We carry those same notions throughout life, don’t we? You get your heart broken by someone you love, and you’re afraid to love again. You get into a car accident, you’re afraid to drive again. Most likely though, at some point, you begin to heal. You try again. You give it another chance.

Can you imagine where you would be if you didn’t allow yourself those chances? I’m not talking about going back to the same exact person who hurt you over and over again kind of chance. I’m talking about giving YOURSELF the chance. You allow yourself to love someone new, despite how you’ve been hurt in the past. You allow yourself to get back behind the wheel, taking control of your life. You allow yourself to learn from your mistakes, and maybe even learn through others’ mistakes. You allow yourself to get back up and keep going.

When Ian was first diagnosed with brain tumors back in 2019, I lost all sense of faith. I couldn’t understand why this was happening to an innocent baby. MY baby, who was only just about to turn 2 years old. When Ian’s tumor hemorrhaged, I gave faith another chance. Because at one point, it was all we had. We had odds upon odds stacked against us. But the way things played out is something I can only describe as divine intervention.

Because, you see, Ian had his routine MRI on September 14th. This is where we found the tumor had increased in size. We met with neurosurgery the next morning, and we were given the signs to look for in case of intercranial pressure. That very same night, Ian exhibited the symptoms, and then some. I often wonder how things would have gone if we weren’t aware that there was a possible issue. Would we have acted as fast, or would we have been too late? What if it hemorrhaged in the middle of the night when we were all sleeping? The timing of it all and the quick actions of all those we came into contact with that evening, all played a role in saving him.

All signs pointed to malignancy at that point. This would mean the tumor mutated and has become aggressive. More dangerous. And likely more difficult to treat. I made myself sick looking at different kinds of brain cancers. I compare images I found on Google to Ian’s tumor to try to pinpoint which one it might be. I wanted to be ready for the fight ahead, even though I knew deep down I never would be ready for that kind of battle. Ian’s tumors, from day one, were deemed inoperable. Even when the MRI revealed it grew, the plan was never to remove it completely- just to get enough pieces of it for a second biopsy and poke a hole through it to relieve the pressure in Ian’s brain from the buildup of cerebral spinal fluid. The day Ian became stable enough for surgery, it was sudden. And we found out our baby would be going into surgery the next morning to get as much of the tumor as they could. We were scared beyond words. We knew if they were actually going to go in and take whatever they could out after being told it was inoperable, this meant that the medical team felt it was more dangerous to leave it in. Because the signs pointed to malignancy, the best course of action is to remove as much as you can and attack any remaining with chemo and radiation.

So, this is where we were. Surgically removing the tumor. A tumor we’ve known about for 3 years. An option that was never on the table now suddenly was. I remember crying in the waiting room. One, just praying Ian was actually strong enough to get through the surgery. The surgery was extremely risky without adding in the complications Ian had faced those couple weeks prior. And I remember talking with Mike about how we would move forward. Not necessarily with treatment, but to be quite honest, we talked about how we would make whatever time we had left with Ian meaningful. How we would enhance his quality of life. It was a morbid conversation that broke my heart into a million pieces. And about 4 hours later, the surgeon would call us into the room and tell us something I wasn’t expecting: The preliminary was low grade. We still had to wait for the final results, but our surgeon was one of the best. She’s seen malignant tumors; she’s seen low grade. This preliminary changed everything.

By the end of it all, we were given a new diagnosis, but one that was still low grade. And during that conversation with oncology, we found out that there was only a 2-3% chance of this being our outcome. Such a small percentage. And it was us. It was Ian. Gratitude is an understatement. And I realized how things had come full circle in a way. I lost my faith because of Ian’s inital diagnosis. His first hospital stay. And I gained it back after his second. I realized the Universe was trying to show me to trust in it. trust in something bigger than myself. And even though it had hurt me before, I gave it another chance.

My life from there on out has been about forgiveness, peace, second chances, and trying again. And I try to instill that into both of my kids’ lives as well, as we work to move forward. Ian’s mobility was affected as a result of the brain injury. He falls. He struggles a lot. But we encourage him to keep going. We don’t let any of his disabilities hold him back. We don’t allow either of our kids to live in constant fear of the unknown. We were given a second chance. And we intend to use it. To continue using it.